


Better Than Wine

by jessikast



Category: Laurie King - Mary Russell series
Genre: F/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008, recipient:wrestlingdog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:57:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessikast/pseuds/jessikast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to maudlinrose for her beta and deepbluemermaid for casting a keen eye over my spelling and grammar. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own. Merry Christmas, wrestlingdog! I hope you enjoy the fic as much I as enjoyed writing it.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Better Than Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to maudlinrose for her beta and deepbluemermaid for casting a keen eye over my spelling and grammar. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own. Merry Christmas, wrestlingdog! I hope you enjoy the fic as much I as enjoyed writing it.

  
_Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine._  
Song of Solomon

 _This manuscript was one I thought long and hard about publishing. Like the others I received in that mysterious trunk, it was handwritten and neatly tied into a bundle. The paper it was written on is the same as that of the rest of the account it fits into chronologically, the end of that published as_ A Monstrous Regiment of Women. _However, the author had at some point decided to remove it from that main narrative, but kept it rather than destroying it._

When I realised what the manuscript contained, I wavered between reintroducing it back (in edited form) into the original book (we are less prudish these days, after all, and I thought perhaps it might help sales) or destroying it entirely. However, I eventually came to this decision: to prepare the manuscript as I had the others: neatly type up mish-mash of handwriting and old-fashioned typewriting and ready the manuscript for publishing, but not actually present it to the publisher. Even my agent does not know this document exists. For myself, I think it better that way.

* * *

Like the rest of my life with Holmes would prove, my wedding night was far from a calm affair. I mentioned that we eloped and, indeed, we managed to escape the kind of elaborate event that would normally accompany the marriage between a man of Holmes' social stature and a woman of my wealth and standing. However, we are both prudent people, and for the sake of our continued health we did not attempt to evade Mrs Hudson and Uncle John when it came to the ceremony.

Truly, I think that none of the various amoral and criminal types Holmes and I find ourselves confronted by so often frighten me as much as the idea of Mrs Hudson thwarted of the opportunity to plan a wedding.

In any case, once the legalities were over in a short ceremony presided over by a discreet priest and the small wedding party had enjoyed a quiet but perfectly sumptuous lunch, Holmes and I were despatched in my motor car to take something of a honeymoon in one of those rambling Victorian hotels that line the Eastbourne beach. Given that it was early Spring at best when we were there, we were not competing with those on vacation at the seaside; just a few hardy souls who were "taking the air" and tended to stroll around breathing deeply and looking virtuous before retreating to the hotel's bar and disappearing into a haze of tobacco smoke.

Our particular hotel was one recommended by the Barkers, who 'phoned a few days before our wedding to casually mention that they had made reservations they were no longer able to keep, and would Holmes and I like to go in their place? The concierge who greeted us was a young man whose neat and professional appearance was only slightly marred by the fact that he didn't rise to greet us but remained seated. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall behind the high desk, and between those and the less obvious clues of some faint scarring beside one eye and the calluses of a rifle-handler on his hands I concluded that this was yet another of those young men chewed up and spat out by the Great War. Quite possibly his pre-war plans had not involved being the night-time concierge of an affluent but quiet hotel, but he was pleasantly professional as he gave us a room key and called the porter over to take our bags.

The porter nearly dropped our bags twice (the third time, Holmes and I both lunged to save them and so we all entered the suite carrying a bag) and kept up a nervous patter about the weather and local attractions until he accepted a tip and left us in peace.

I was no longer under any illusion about my physical attraction for Holmes, and I did not doubt his for me (the fierce passion in his kisses -  
God!) but in some ways I had managed to utterly avoid thinking of this moment, the natural events that take place on one's honeymoon. Holmes and I had gone through the day carried on the emotion of the event; sighed in shared relief when we were in the car and away from Mrs Hudson's attempts to foist leftovers on us 'for the road' and Uncle John's suspiciously wet eyes, and talked on the journey of perfectly normal subjects, such as his next planned experiments with acids, or pulling over once or twice to examine some particularly interesting skid marks left on the road.

Until now, when the faint sound of waves outside was unbearably loud for a moment, the suite's opulent bed loomed large from the bedroom, and I avoided looking at Holmes for a moment as I cast about for a topic of conversation.

Happily, I didn't have a chance to make an utter fool of myself, because as I turned to Holmes to comment cheerily on the interesting pattern of the wallpaper, he stepped towards me and with total effectiveness caught my mouth with his. Like our first kiss on that wretched wharf (and unlike the nearly chaste kiss bestowed on me at the wedding), this kiss was full of the passion that Holmes normally kept reined in. One hand rested on my hip under my coat; the other gripped the back of my neck, holding me tightly to him as his lips pressed against my own.

My own hands grasped at Holmes' shoulders, moving to push the heavy coat off him; we stood for a moment like that, swaying futilely as we attempted to remove outer garments without yielding any closeness until I groaned with frustration against Holmes' mouth and he pulled his head back to rest his forehead against mine. Our panting breaths slowed and I reluctantly forced my fingers to unclench from his coat even as the hand he held on the back of my neck loosened from a tight grip to absent-minded, reassuring strokes that nevertheless threatened to undo me once again.

Curiously, I felt more at ease now with Holmes than I had some minutes before. I didn't feel the need to fill the silence with chatter but was content to stand a moment until my heart had stopped fluttering and I was breathing more slowly. Eventually, Holmes cleared his throat but I interrupted before he could speak. "I haven't had as much experience at this kind of thing as you, Holmes, but I'm fairly sure that it goes more congenially when one is wearing less clothing."

"Yes, I -" he started in a dry tone of voice, before jerking his head back to glare at me. "What do you mean 'much experience'?" he demanded crossly. "Do I need to go and avenge your honour, or some such?"

"Not at all!" I hastened to reassure him. With nervousness ebbing, I was becoming pathetically eager to steer the conversation away from anything delaying our journey to the marital bed. "I had an acquaintance at Oxford, but we didn't...I mean to say, I'm still..." I trailed off as Holmes' glare softened. "But I am experienced enough to say with some authority that I would be much happier with proceedings if you would just remove your-"

Once again I was interrupted by a kiss, but this wasn't the deliciously ardent thing of before: a soft, almost reverent press of Holmes' lips against the corner of my own and I couldn't help the shiver that closed my eyes and distracted me as he shrugged out of his jacket and started to push off my own. When both were piled on the floor (may the elves forgive me for crimes against fabric!) I returned the favour by leaning in and very precisely licking my way up the tendon on the side of his long neck while my fingers worked at the buttons on his shirt. By the time I was pulling the neck of the garment open, Holmes was bending down to nibble on my earlobe _just so_ while working on my blouse.

And so it went, trading tender kisses and licks until I was standing in my camisole, drawers and stockings and Holmes' shirt and belt were undone and he had to stop to undo the cufflinks before his shirt dangled ridiculously from his wrists. I reached up to release my increasingly dishevelled hair from its pins and I saw with some amusement how Holmes' eyes followed the movement, staring at my hair as it fell down even as he distractedly shook his shirt out neatly and hung it over a doorknob - the only piece of clothing so honoured. The rest was in a trail on the floor, showing our slow progress from the middle of the suite's living area towards the bedroom.

With the bed just a tantalising few steps away I moved towards it, intent on bringing Holmes with me so I could find out what else that clever, clever mouth could do, but for a moment Holmes resisted, and looked slightly discomforted. "Russell, before we go any further, I feel I must ask - or rather, I wish to make sure that we...that you-"

"Holmes," I said fiercely. "If you are choosing now, of all times, to go gentlemanly on me, I _swear_..." He looked for a moment almost as if he were about to rally those damned Victorian impulses once more, so I decided to take matters in hand and while he was opening his mouth I stepped in, wrapped my arms around his waist and pushed him towards the bed until he fell backwards upon it. Dear Holmes actually gaped in surprise and the expression was so endearing I felt I had no choice but to crawl onto the bed next to him and take advantage of his open mouth to practise some of the "French kissing" I flattered myself I had become rather skilled at.

Holmes has never been one to be pushed off balance for long, and after a moment he reached up to hold my face between his hands, gently tilting my face as he took over the kiss. I occupied my own hands with pushing his undershirt up over his lean chest and he pulled away long enough to let me pull it over his head entirely before leaning in to press kisses in a line down my neck, pausing by the scar tissue on my collar bone where he deliberately and reverently kissed each knot and continued downwards.

I have always been attracted to sheer competence and the calm precision with which Holmes was working on me, systematically testing and analysing which spots in particular made me shiver or gasp - well, I was shivering and gasping, rendered quite unable to respond to Holmes in kind (which I thought distantly was utterly characteristic of Holmes and _quite_ infuriating) and could only lie back, grip his shoulders and enjoy the sensations he was producing in me.

Holmes was leaning over me, his weight propped up on one forearm, the right hand resting lightly on my hip over the silk chemise. That hand began to caress its way upwards until it cupped my breast. Holmes stopped his campaign of kisses at the neckline of my camisole to gauge my reaction as one thumb brushed over my nipple. I suppose my reaction gratified him; I gasped and bowed my back to push the breast into his palm. Through half-closed eyes I could see his lips quirk in a satisfied smile and he bent to press his mouth against my breast. He didn't kiss it, just pressed his open mouth against the fabric until it was damp and I was nearly vibrating at the sensation of the silk pressing against the nipple when he used his tongue: a swift, firm flick and I moaned and squirmed beneath him.

Holmes repeated his success several times before moving to the other breast; at some stage I managed to pull at the neckline of the camisole until his mouth was working on bare flesh. The human mind being a wonderfully adaptive thing, it took me not too long at all to regain logic in the haze of pleasure, and I took notice of where Holmes' body was pressed along mine. I shifted one thigh just enough that it pressed against the hardness I could feel at his groin and shifted my knee upwards to produce a firm pressure.

I flatter myself that in doing so, Holmes lost his concentration and focus on my breasts for several whole seconds.

If time had seemed to slow while Holmes and I had been starting to undress one another in the sitting room, and then progressed at a normal (if deliciously teasing) pace til this point, now it seemed to flow faster as our movements grew more frantic. Holmes' hips started to stutter, and I had happily discovered that in shifting I had also managed to manoeuvre one of his thighs to press against my groin in a frustratingly wonderful way - frustrating, because any sensation was tempered by the cloth of his trousers and the thin fabric of my knickers.

I suppose that Holmes, being the gentleman he is, had some idea of ensuring my introduction to the marital bed was a slow and gentle affair. I had entertained some vague ideas in that direction myself, admittedly, but when it came down to it what I appreciated most in my interactions with Holmes were the moments when our tempers and emotions rose; when we challenged each other, forced our minds to greater speed and effort, bared our teeth in mock aggression and brought the blood rising into the other's cheeks in a glorious meeting or clash of minds on the physical plane. Usually this ended in a well-rehearsed shouting match, with one party throwing up its hands in exasperation and surrender while the other triumphantly gestured as they made the winning points in their argument.

Our moments of enjoying solitude together, or low-voiced conversations about either serious matters or trifles - those had their place too, and make up some of the happiest moments in my life. However, for sheer visceral satisfaction they don't hold a candle, and I was not at all sorry that my first physical encounter with Holmes followed the former path. It felt at the time like the epitome of the aspects of our relationship that made it Ours, and quite perfect. Not romantic, perhaps, but neither of us were much afflicted by that particular vice.

As Holmes occupied himself with trying to pull my chemise off over my head,  
I simultaneously worked my fingers at the buttons of his trousers. Kisses turned into nips and I daresay my fingernails forgot to merely tease and instead caused some rather dramatic scratches down Holmes' back and side but as we panted against each other and writhed in the effort of removing clothing while not relinquishing contact, I found the hints of near-pain were addictive rather than off-putting.

Despite distractions, I managed to get one hand inside Holmes' trousers and pressed it firmly against his member. He froze for a moment, and groaned low as I turned my wrist so I could wrap my fingers around him. He groaned again, a sound close to a whine in the back of his throat, as I firmed my grip and moved my hand.

(Truly, I had not got even this far in relations in my experiments at Oxford, but I am nothing if not well-read, and I find that if one can counterfeit confidence at a task, it is half-way done.)

"Russell," Holmes grated. "I am no longer a young man, but I fear-" He broke off as I moved and twisted my hand slightly. "-I fear if you continue as you are this evening's events will come to a sooner end than may be hoped."

I chuckled slightly and felt rather superior. I was pulling back my hand and about to make a witty rejoinder when Holmes took advantage of the movement to kneel back and grasp the sides of my undergarments, pulling them halfway down my thighs. He couldn't pull them down further in the position we were in, so I sat up enough to push him backwards and continue the job, ordering him "Yours too."

He stood up and let his trousers drop beside the bed as I pulled off my rumpled camisole. For a moment the frantic mood abated a little, and we regarded each other frankly. I leaned back on my elbows and flushed a little as I felt Holmes' eyes roam over my body. I was acutely aware of the scars marring my skin, my fashionably small breasts which were surely a far cry from the Victorian voluptuousness which was the ideal when Holmes was a younger man, the flush that was spreading down over my neck and chest.

I distracted myself by taking the opportunity to examine Holmes. I had seen parts of him unclothed, of course; hairy legs emerging from swimming trunks as he came back from a bracing dip, his lean chest and strong back as he washed briskly during our camping sojourn or needed medical attention in the dreadful adventure that nearly broke us apart soon after. But I had never seen much more than propriety would allow, and certainly I had never seen the whole of him like this.

A man of Holmes' height and slenderness might be described as bony or spidery; certainly his elbows and knees did have a distressing tendency to lodge themselves uncomfortably in soft flesh when he was sleeping restlessly and when he was excited his long limbs could flail in an alarmingly active manner. But as I regarded him standing by the bed, I could only think that he was beautiful, for a man, and perfectly proportioned in every way. He stood evenly with those deliciously clever hands held loosely by his side, the only signs he wasn't standing alone a certain intensity in his gaze and his male member jutting - oh, I want to say proudly, but honesty compels me to say that I found it slightly absurd at first. A moment later his eyes met mine again, and his predatory smile reached his eyes as he crawled back up the bed until he was hovering over me.

I shivered at the wealth of bare flesh touching my own and nearly whimpered when I felt his shaft brush against my thigh. Whispered and giggling conversations in the dark in the dormitories at Oxford had not prepared me for how very much I desired this man and the sensations it would arouse in me. I lifted my head to kiss him, deeply and passionately, the fire that had been temporarily banked flaring to life again. He groaned into my mouth when I spread my legs to settle him in between them, and nearly squeaked when the feeling of his member brushing against my sex caused me to thrust my hips upwards instinctively. If he had simply thrust into me at that point, I do not think that I would have protested at all, but by some strength of will (and ignoring my whimpered protests) he managed to lift himself enough to work one hand down between us.

Oh, Holmes' hands. I have waxed eloquent on them before - the clever, long fingers, sensitive pads and broad, competent palms. I daresay it is not a surprise to say that those fingers were capable of doing wicked, wonderful things to me. My own uninformed investigations in that area I had thought well enough; they were nothing at all to the sensations Holmes created as he lightly teased at the hair, parted the lips of my vulva and dipped into the moisture that was there.

I nearly flew off the bed at the first touch of his fingers against my clitoris and blood-swollen flesh of the inner lips. My body went taut, head thrown back into the pillow and legs spreading wider. I moaned, a sound that was utterly lascivious to my ears, but I didn't care as his fingers moved again, stroking from above my clitoris down to my vagina and back up. And down and up, sometimes pressing firmly, sometimes circling teasingly, once or twice the fingers dipping frustratingly close to entering me, but always shying away again. I could feel myself gasping and pressing my hips up towards that elusive rhythm. When he refused to give it to me, I reached down and grabbed his wrist. I daresay the strength of my grip and the hint of nails gave Holmes the right idea, because when I loosened my hand he adjusted the angle of his wrist and settled into a fast, hard, perfect rhythm that very soon had me panting and rutting against his hand until with a wail of "Holmes!" I was brought to climax.

As I lay with eyes closed, pulling in lungfuls of oxygen while I felt my heartbeat slow, Holmes just lay still, half next and half on top of me. His fingers remained resting lightly on my vulva, and with eyes still closed I buried my face in his chest and reached down one hand to cover his, mapping out with my fingers the places where he was touching me. After a moment my flesh seemed unbearably sensitive and as I made a move to pull Holmes's hand away he seemed to read my reaction and start to move himself. I gripped his hand and instead of allowing it to pull away entirely, moved it down so his fingers were resting at my entrance. By my hip, I could feel his shaft twitch slightly.

"Please," I murmured, the first proper word that had been said for some time. He started to demur and I anticipated what he was going to say. "You needn't worry about hurting me; you should be well aware that between my unusually active lifestyle and the...sanitation methods I adopted while disguised as Amir, there is nothing there to worry about. I desire very strongly to have you inside me." He wavered, started to move and stopped again, and I opened my eyes to meet his. "Please," I said again.

Instead of using his fingers as I had expected, he removed his hand and shifted to settle himself between my legs. I had to admire his willpower; I could feel certain rarely-used muscles still clenching and unclenching and I longed to just pull him into me. His muscles were tense as he held himself above me and his eyes closed tightly for a moment before opening to lock with mine. With something approaching a sob of relief, he pressed forward and entered me in one smooth thrust.

I gasped. I had not anticipated how large his long, slim phallus would feel when it breached me; there was none of the pain and blood typical of a virgin, but I did feel a slight burn at my very entrance although the rest of his movement was smoothed by my own lubricants. Fully sheathed inside me he held still for a moment, face buried between my shoulder and neck. Impatiently I ran one hand down his back, ending with nails scratching lightly over one buttock.

With a slight gasp, he began to move. "Russell...Mary," he said. "Are you-"

"Are _you_?" I asked in return. "For God's sake, Holmes, _please_ ," I begged. Finally, thankfully, he began to move, long slow thrusts at first, even movements that initially satisfied until I began to grip at him, trying to urge him to move faster. He resisted at first, then as his breathing started to hitch his hips worked faster. I could feel the crest of orgasm start to rise in me again; a long, slow arousal that seemed frustratingly out of reach. I started to whimper, to beg nonsensically in Holmes' ear or bite at his shoulder when that didn't work to increase his thrusts as hard or as fast as I needed.

Finally Holmes pulled nearly out of me, paused for one excruciatingly long second and just as I met his eyes he pushed back in with one forceful snap of his hips. I was driven nearly a foot up the bed and but I didn't care as the movement forced my climax out of me and I yelled as it shook me. Holmes now moved as fast and hard as I had earlier wished and it felt to me like as he did so it caught the slowing edge of my orgasm and dragged it out until I wailed in helpless pleasure and could only hold on as his rhythm stuttered and became frantic rutting thrusts.

My mind cleared just enough at the last deep thrusts that signalled his climax that I could clearly see Holmes' face as he achieved his own release. Holmes' did not yell as I had; a groan that might have been my name was forced from his clenched jaw, and for a beautiful long moment, my dear Holmes utterly lost control.

When he collapsed boneless against me, I wrapped my legs around his waist so he couldn't move and pressed a kiss to the tousled hair at his temple. We panted together for a moment and by the time we had caught our breaths again his weight and where we were joined were uncomfortable enough that I relaxed enough to allow him to roll off me.

We lay together silently a moment more, moving only to pull the comforter up as the air on the rapidly cooling sweat on our bodies made me shiver, and Holmes gathered me under his arm. I sighed happily, and felt Holmes chuckle silently, the kind of genuine laugh he made when he was truly, joyfully amused. "I do love you, you know," I said.

"I know. And I you," replied Holmes.

"I think married life will suit me rather well after all," I continued. "How long until we can do that again?"

Holmes was silent for a moment, and I could nearly hear the sputtering he was holding back. "Well, I know I told you I wasn't a young man, and really, Russell..."

I couldn't hold back my laughter. "Refractory periods. I know Holmes, I'm only teasing." A yawn broke my words. "After a nap, perhaps. Ought I be calling you Sherlock now?"

"My dear Mary...no, it hasn't quite the same ring to it. If it's all the same to you, I think I'd prefer to stick with Russell myself..."

His voice trailed off and I realised Holmes had drifted off. My husband is forever coming up with brilliant ideas, so I turned until I could sling one leg and one arm over him, and followed his lead.

* * *

I had hoped that the nap would be just that - a nap before waking to continue the marital duties, and that we could this time take the time we didn't earlier to truly start to explore every inch of the other's body. I underestimated, though, the lateness of the hour and the utter exhaustion at the end of the long day compiled with vigorous exercise. We slept soundly through the night and I didn't wake until the following morning.

Waking up on the first day of my married life is one of my fondest memories, and I don't know when I have ever felt more content. The bed was soft and warm. I could tell by his breathing that Holmes was awake, but he hadn't moved to retrieve the paper from outside the suite's door or order tea. He was spooned up behind me, one arm lying beneath my neck and the other curling around my belly to hold me firmly. His face was buried in the hair at the back of my neck and I could feel his warm breath stirring it slightly. Holmes is rarely demonstrably affectionate, but even after he realised I had woken he - well, the only word for it is _snuggled_ into me, the arm around my torso tightening slightly. Holmes has been described as feline, and I swear that the small hum of contentment I could feel from him was as close to a purr as any human is likely to make.

I stretched, and turned around in his arms to face him and press a leisurely kiss against his lips. "Good morning, Mrs Holmes," he said, faint humour lighting his eyes.

"Good morning, Mr Russell," I replied. "Do you feel it necessary to get up for breakfast immediately, or do you suppose-"

Breakfast was somewhat delayed. He did indeed suppose.

  



End file.
